


Dear Creampuff

by RunWithWolves



Series: 30 Days of Creampuff [2]
Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: 30DaysofCreampuff, F/F, Journal Entries, excess philosophy, there is sarcasm afoot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:11:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3188492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunWithWolves/pseuds/RunWithWolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Laura prefers to document her life using modern technology, Carmilla has always used a more archaic method of chronicling - a journal.</p><p>"My roommate is demonstrating more commitment to a girl she’s known for two weeks than I’ve seen people spend after the promise of a lifelong relationship. One cannot imagine what chaos the creampuff would wreak should she ever fall in love. </p><p>A thought that is strangely nauseating."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Entry 1 - “Disorientation”

Dear Future Mircalla,

Congratulations, you’ve managed to make it to the depressing point of your life where you actually go back and read these inane journal entries. What a future to look forward to. Thus begins another blank book in the incomprehensible endless void that is our futile existence. 

Literally. Mother’s forcibly brought me back to this hell hole of a University for another fun year of innocent maiden entrapment by vampires. Somehow I don’t think Mama intended these journals to become a chronological retelling of my assistance in 300 years of murder. I’m sure that when she extracted her promise of continual chronicling she expected her precious baby Countess to fill these pages with love poems for the kitchen boy downstairs and eventually for me to tell tales of my tall and handsome husband and our plethora of royal children. 

Even without the murder, fawning over stable boys and husbands wasn’t going to happen. 

Now the gardener’s daughter on the other hand - 

Pointless. 1697 is long gone. One more fleeting moment of nothingness in this eternal 20 year cycle of drudgery. Always back at Silas playing the same game. Be nice Mircalla. Make them like you Mircalla. Be their bestest most super awesome friend Mircalla. Whether the girl wears a hoopskirt and rides in a carriage or prefers trackpants and a motorcycle makes no difference. 

Mother says play nice and smile pretty. Mama said the same. 

There are deviations in the game. Those few twinkling stars that make the endless night of the game come to life. Fool mother. Lose the girl however you can. Be so cruel that they go running. Break their hearts so they cry their way home. Whatever works. 

Of course it’s pointless. Mother just takes another one. The girl is just one more face in an endless sea that Mother’s set me after. Quite frankly the girl doesn’t matter. This one. That one. I don’t get involved. Not anymore. 

But if it screws with Mother even minutely, then its definitely worth it. Screwing with mother and the fresh meat is even better. Punks with barely 50 years under their belt who think they own the world. Please. You should see the imbeciles strutting across the campus like overfluffed vultures. Of course I’m already in trouble - as if I was ever actually going to get here on time for the semester. Mother doesn’t think that I have better things to do than pander to her micro-managed sensibilities? I could literally be tattooing crucifixes on my skin or shaving off my eyebrows or learning about cuticle care or other important less annoying things than being here.

I must say though, for a timeworn harbinger of necrosis she’s certainly been efficient this year. I’m only a couple of weeks late and she’s already landed 3 girls. The fresh meat appears eager to please.

William is being particularly insufferable with his pathetic attempt at witticisms related to my supposed inabilities. I hope he loses his girl and has to start over. Heh. That’s something worth cracking a smile over. 

For now mother has me camped out in the secondary staffroom until she can find a suitable target. I did volunteer to stay in the woods, significantly better company, but she seems under the opinion that I’ll extract myself from campus at the nearest opportunity. Of course, we both know that she could quite easily find me and once again intern me below the Earth, but apparently tracking me down is too much trouble. 

Apologies for the inconvenience. I never did get the chance to grow out of my rebellious phase. Quite frankly, I’d rather be ignoring whatever lackwit target mother acquires than wandering campus. I did manage to connect with one of the targeted girls in an intro to something boring class but to no avail. And although the gender ratios have skewed in my favour with time and I’ve had my share of ‘study sessions’,this generation is simultaneously far too jaded and brainwashed into complacency to offer any real opportunity. 

Not to infer that any real opportunity would present itself to me. That’s such as impossibility as to be nearly laughable. Hope is a waking dream. Enslaving us to carry on when we should proceed otherwise. Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of men. Thus, do not hope - avoid torment.

So I wait for the inevitable sack of self-absorbed flesh that Mother bids me to bring her.

As always for Mama:

The Right Honourable and Most Excellentest of all Ladies, Countess Karnstein of Celje


	2. Entry 2 - “Missing”

Dear Future Mircalla,

Or should I say Carmilla? Once again Mother’s propensity for anagrams has struck with all the subtlety of a werewolf. 

Absolutely none.

I suppose she’d like me to be impressed with her creativity, 300 years and I’ve never been a Carmilla before. But in truth spending decades essentially nameless and another 200 years alternately vowels between Mircalla and Marcilla isn’t particularly impressive. 

I mean the woman instituted a multiple choice note card communication system. She’s not a bastion of innovation. 

Once again it’s time to fulfill my obligations to Mother for her years of guidance and administration of the eternal extension of my life. This is how Mother knows that I will always return and why she places so little faith in the fresh meat. The modern generation lacks the capacity to understand and hold to the truth of obligation. My debt to mother is one that can never be repaid.

She has ensured it. And so, despite my apathy, I always return. Mama raised me to understand my obligations, not to change my alliances so freely as today’s children do.

And so last time at Silas I was Mallicra Karnstein, don’t get me started on that particular anagram, history major. Mother sent the new student documentation over an hour ago and I have suddenly become Carmilla Karnstein, philosophy major. Fine, whatever. But she could not have picked a worse photo for my ID card. Vampiric constitution does many things but apparently Mother managed to find the one image that makes me actually appear as dead as I am. I do not have bags under my eyes. 

This also means my dear Mother has found me a suitable victim for retrieval. Her file was in Mother’s packet. Laura Hollis, Journalism. Because what doesn’t a reclusive ancient vampire love more than a nosy little journalist? Getting rid of them and their questions. 

This gem of a girl was the roommate of Mother’s recently retrieved first victim. So what does Miss Lois Lane decide to do when her roommate disappears? Complain to everyone with a phone number. 

Including the Dean of Students’ answering machine. Asinine move sweetheart. 

That’s how girls get killed. 

So now I’ve got to go in and deal with Rita Skeeter Jr as she continues on her quest to fame and glory by cracking The Mysterious Case of the Missing Roommate. They train them young, two weeks into the semester and its already anything for a headline. Long gone are the days of self-sacrifice and heroic notions. 

And she’s not even going about it properly. If she’s going to bother investigating at least do it right. Don’t waste time dithering through phone lines and impersonal voices. I saw her ID picture. 

Girl that cute should be using every face to face communication method she can find. A properly placed flirtatious comment here and there and she could have gotten all the way to the Dean’s office.

She looks like the puppy dog eyes type and that’s always effective. Use that lack of bone structure to play up the innocent maiden card. All soft and doe-eyes. The personification of a baked good. Reels them in every time. I mean, if you like that sort of thing. 

Which I don’t. 

Then you just swap that innocent exterior for the cold hardness of get-the-headline journalism and leave them weeping. Lecture 101. 

But I suppose I should head over to my new lodging before Mother bursts an empty vein or some other more suitable vampire analogy. 

Mother has her rules, I have mine.

Never name the victims. 

Names are labels, printed on the bottled essence of our souls to define who we are. To use a name is to define a victim. To define a victim is to give them permission to follow me throughout the winding course of my existence. To haunt my dreams and invade waking hours with tales of their presence. Names change until they become a reflection of the person. Words are safer. Words do not change their meanings so drastically in the course of centuries as, in our minds, names do in the course of a year or two. Until, the person and the name are indistinguishable - firmly entrenched on the soul. Until a series of letters or sounds is enough to cut to the core and lay bare emotions nearly forgotten. 

Names define. Accepting a name defines.

Ready or not sweetheart, here comes Carmilla. 

As always for Mama:

The Right Honourable and Most Excellentest of all Ladies, Countess Karnstein of Celje

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter they finally get to meet!
> 
> Comments, concerns, and kudos always appreciated.   
> http://ariabauer.tumblr.com/


	3. Entry 3 - “The Roommate”

Dear Future Carmilla,

If nothing else, at least The Roommate has proven to be amusing. Certainly her outrage at my general incursion into her space demonstrates the typical self absorbed nature of this generation, but somehow witnessing high levels of rage and confusion compressed into such a tiny human has proven entertaining. 

She is so tiny. And apparently blissfully unaware of the repercussions of this fact. I barely had a foot in the door before she was telling me to leave and it took almost no prodding to get the tiny human frothing at the mouth with rage. A sarcastic comment here, take some cash from a dead girl there, try on a dead girl’s shirt and the little cutie was already right in my face. 

What? It’s not like dead girls can use them.

But someone so tiny shouldn’t be quite so fearless. Granted I’m small by modern standards but you’d think this girl would have some internal instinct telling her not to mess with the vampire. I get the feeling she’d tango with whomever it took to get what she wants. 

Bad news for mother. Good news for me. 

The tiny human is still on her rampage to retrieve the missing roommate, a quest only fueled by my presence. This makes her both a thorn in mother’s side and inherently easier to drive off campus. She’ll only put up with me for so long before deciding that cracking the missing roommate case isn’t worth the headline and go scuttling off into the sunset. 

Until then I get to watch her go slowly insane as I ignore her arts and crafts chore wheel, desecrate her perfectionist tendencies, steal her food, and generally make her uncomfortable. It’s only been a few days and my mere presence seems to set this girl off. 

So with this one we’re going the hate route to get her off campus.

Although don’t think that I didn’t catch her looking. These leather pants have been known to fluster a girl or two. Even better when they think they hate you. Conflicting emotions and superficial tight pants do my job for me. 

She does, however, seem quite determined to be rid of me. Her initial ferocity caught me off guard. Her sheer confidence that I would quickly be removed from her life and that she’d save this supposed BFF of hers. I do believe that her naivety might not be an act contrived by that overly adorable face but rather that I’ve actually come across a genuinely innocent soul.

I’ll admit I cracked a smile. She’s amusingly impossible. 

She rather reminds me of a small bristling kitten, unaware of its overconfidence as it hisses at a much greater enemy and then attacks the vacuum instead of the person wielding it. 

I haven’t seen one like her in a while. I give her a few days before she peters out on this quest and gives up.

However, the tiny human isn’t currently Mother’s primary target. I need to do more ‘bonding’ with her before we lure her to some party. So I’m keeping an eye on one of the fresh meat’s other targets. Some blonde athletic anthropology girl. She seemed interested in me at least. I know the signs. A little too giggly at something as boring as the cutie’s dumb chore wheel. Perfectly willing to lie down and ‘read a book’ with me. Basically your usual pointless flirtations that cumulatively demonstrate the futility of connection and leads only to anger. Of course, that anger is only the manifestation of a deeper issue, one based on insecurity, self-esteem, and loneliness. 

On the plus side I managed to get her on the tiny human’s bed which, once again, sent the cupcake into a tizzy of anger. Entertainment at its finest. 

The mark and I were supposed to meet this evening but I got some message from her about cold sores and she postponed. This school is ghastly. 

More to the point, what does this cupcake eat? While I personally don’t mind the availability of copious amounts of cookies, cupcakes, baked goods, and sugar beverages to supplement my blood in a soy milk bottle diet, I do vaguely recall that humans need other forms of sustenance. Preferably foodstuffs that actually have the potential to go bad after 3 years. 

I may need to sneak something green and leafy into the fridge. I bet if I labeled it mine she’d eat it out of revenge or something. 

As always for Mama:

The Right Honourable and Most Excellentest of all Ladies, Countess Karnstein of Celje

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Looking forward to the next one!  
> You comments, questions, concerns and constructive critiques are always welcome.  
> Stay stupendous. Aria


	4. Entry 4 - “Freak OUT”

Dear Future Carmilla,

Mother has claimed another one. 

The fresh meat took the blonde anthropology girl at some ridiculous frat boy party last night. A party that she shouldn't even have been at. She was supposed to be meeting me. But no, believing some ludicrous rumour about cold sores she canceled our plans and decided to head out for a night on the town.

Idiot. As if I could ever get a cold sore. 

 

Regardless, I fail to to see the appeal of being surrounded by a bunch of brutish, sweaty lack whits as the night descends into chaos. Certainly it’s not an event to risk one’s life over. If she’s just been a little less stupid and little more observant she’d have been fine. Or if she’d stayed with her friends rather than trusting strange drinks and strange people. That’s how the world works. 

Not to mention that Mother’s latest victim was obviously interested in me. Irregardless of my interest in her, there was a time when even the faintest sign of courtship would have lead one to stay beside the object of their affections whether they had maladies or anything else. Not so today. Whatever. Losing girls is an inevitability. If it wasn’t this one, it would have been another. 

But seriously, cold sores drove her off? It’s not as though I was struck down with an incurable contagious disease. As I’ve said for years, commitment has fallen by the wayside. Modernity says if there’s nothing in it for you, why bother. 

Granted this has proven personally beneficial in the propensity and acceptability of one-night stands - the only option available to an immortal. Even Mother has found benefit in the capacity of human’s to forget her victims. Humanity is losing its ability to care once the personnel benefits have dispersed.

Unless, apparently, you’re the creampuff. 

My roommate is demonstrating more commitment to a girl she’s known for two weeks than I’ve seen people spend after the promise of a lifelong relationship. One cannot imagine what chaos the creampuff would wreak should she ever fall in love. 

A thought that is strangely nauseating. 

The nausea is likely a product of the sheer annoyance that would be her love induced zest for life contrasting with my own practical sensibilities. Ugh. I suppose I can comfort myself with the notion that a swooning creampuff is not something I’m likely to see - either she’ll kick me out of her life or she’ll get eaten. 

After all, the creampuff and her bunched up little face are next on Mother’s list. 

She’ll probably do something incompetent - puttering about and sticking her nose into stupid places that any individual with half a brain would know to stay away from. Of course I get the roommate who is blissfully unaware that she’s being targeted by an ancient vampire cult and still actively provokes them. Stupid tiny cupcake and her stupid heroic commitments and her stupid adorable little nose and her stupid stupidity. 

Just need to piss her off and get her out of here or just piss her off and get it all done with. 

Get her out of my life before - no. I won’t even put that ludicrous thought to paper. 

Perhaps I can get past her righteous fury and scrunched noses to something deeper. I’m going to push this girl until she breaks. I’m already wearing her old roommate’s shirt. That should be a start. 

As always for Mama:

The Right Honourable and Most Excellentest of all Ladies, Countess Karnstein of Celje

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until next time.  
> Stay Stupendous,  
> Aria


	5. Entry 5 - “Patterns”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Creampuff found the blood. The Creampuff is angry. The Countess is shirtless.

Dear Future Carmilla,

The stupid, tiny, infuriating human. Can this girl do nothing the way I want her to? Must she perpetually defy every expectation I put upon her until I don’t dare make any judgements as to what she will and will not do?

The girl is a hurricane stuffed inside a snowglobe. Frustratingly unpredictable in her actions and consistent only in her apparent genuine desire to help others. Even her consistency is inconsistency with her generation.

I barely made it into the hallway before I heard her righteous indignation slam through the building. She’d let the ginger squad in the room and they’d brilliantly managed to accidently tell Lois Lane that her former roommate was not the only disappearing girl.

Naturally, creampuff was in a tizzy. 

Such was her rage that she didn’t even react to my wearing of her ex-roommate’s shirt. So inconsiderate. Did she think I kept that pink monstrosity on hand for any reason other than driving her insane? I was then subjected to the unwelcome platitudes of the ginger floor don. The creampuff wasn’t paying attention to me and the ginger squad didn’t seem put-off enough by my sarcasm, only one logical solution.

Strip. 

Get the pink monstrosity off and put on more acceptable attire. Nothing sends emotionally and relationship conflicted souls scrambling faster than a little skin. 

Impressively the floor don managed to finish her platitudes without dropping from the embolism that was so obviously percolating under her skin at my attitude. The other ginger tried not to look but couldn’t quite help herself. 

And the creampuff? When I turned around there wasn’t even a hint of blush on those cheeks. Not one. The girl can’t take her eyes off the leather pants but her fury was so great that my objectively gorgeous skin left her unphased. No consistency. Just when I think I’ve got this girl figured out she goes screws around everything in my head. What’s the point of all these see-through shirts if she’s not going to get flustered? She’s supposed to get flustered. 

I should have realized she was focused on a better goal, her hate of me. While I was gone she had finally decided to take a break from cookies and inhale, not healthy food, but some chocolate sugar cereal. The only saving grace nutrition-wise would have been milk. But no, as an act of ‘revenge’ she just has to take my soy milk. The creampuff makes an effort to ingest something healthy and ends up finding my blood. 

Frick. 

I eloquently made up some crap about pranks and corn syrup. She apparently thinks I’m enough of a freak that my excuse seemed plausible - once more demonstrating her ability to be far too trusting. 

But stealing my blood supply wasn’t enough for this intrepid reporter. Then she drops the bomb that she’s the one who made up the cold sore rumour. Look, I don’t care what happens to these girls - saving them is futile - but I’m fairly certain the girlscout buttercup would be crushed to know she directly facilitated the capture of a human being by vampires. 

Of course this level of power over her conscience will likely come in handy at some point. 

But then the girl has the audacity to threaten getting the Dean involved to kick me out. Normally I’d be loathe to involve mother but between the girl-killing cold sore rumours and her sheer annoyance I flat out challenged her to march into Mother’s office. 

At least I’d be done with her. Her and her creampuffness. Done for another 20 years. Heck, I doubt I’d ever run into one like her again.

What goes around comes around buttercup, that’s just the way the world works. 

Then who shows up at our door? Freaking post-capture crazies. Naturally the cupcake just had to invite the objects of my guilt straight to the door. I mean the one in the boring intro class nearly recognized me for Peter’s sake. I had no choice but to embrace the ever-giving gift that is sarcasm. There’s no point letting the cupcake bond with more unsavable girls who have death looming over their heads. Heaven forbid she get as attached to them as her ex-roommate, it would probably break her heart when they disappear again. Ugh, I’ll pass on the tears.

And creampuff, just as a note, I am not a sociopath. I am a vampire with severe emotional baggage who was conscripted to serve as human bait. They’re very different labels. So don’t you dare judge me with your innocent eyes and 19 years of life experience. Don’t you dare. 

Especially not after what she did next. 

Of course, of course, the tiny human has to drag up that memory. Pulling it out of these doomed girls with nary a realization of what she’s throwing in my face. Does she really think that those are years that I want to relive or that I want to hear a play by play description of what happened to --- or that I want to hear what she looks like or that anyone could possible get any closer to saving anyone with this line of inquiry? Creampuff’s not saving anyone. Those girls are already dead. 

She nearly is. 

So of course I drove them off. Them and their tales of darkness and long dead girls in nightgowns with darkness in their eyes and cats that are always nearby but never quite there. 

I wanted to make the creampuff angry. And finally my apparent callousness did.

As always for Mama:

The Right Honourable and Most Excellentest of all Ladies, Countess Karnstein of Celje

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always comments, concerns, questions, and constructive criticisms are welcomed.  
> Stay stupendous,  
> Aria


	6. Entry 6 - “Why Bother?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carmilla gives angsty soliloquies  
> Laura says no  
> Carmilla starts to crumble

Dear Future Carmilla,

Oh yes creampuff, you’re absolutely right. I should have been sooo much nicer to the basically dead, painful memory inducing, vampire sacrificial girls. That would have solved everything. Please, continue to berate me with your soliloquies about my damaged soul. 

Newsflash cupcake, I’m not even sure vampires have a soul. 

As if she can even get all high and mighty with her naive assertions that goodness and true belief and trying your very hardest can get you anywhere in the world. Because what she’s doing isn’t doing a lick of good, it’s just digging herself deeper into a hole. 

Saving no-one and dooming yourself. Yes, clearly rewarding goodness and sunshine is exactly how the universe works. 

I can still hear her infantile rationalizations that ‘at least she’s trying and that’s got to count for something. And boo hoo look how cute and tiny and nice I am and I see the goodness in everyone and it’s all going to work out in the end because I’m trying.’

And she could at least, for once in her minuscule life, do me the honour of being consistent. If she’s going to tow that line she should at least have the courtesy to extend it. At least I’m consistent. I don’t get attached and I always keep my head. That’s why I’m still alive. 

She wants to call me cool and disaffected, fine. I was actually amused that the creampuff sees me as cool.

But then of course she had to get straight at the center of it. Little miss creampuff has the nerve to stick her prying bunched nose right past my perfectly portrayed aura of disaffectedness and tell me that I’m miserable and alone. 

Miserable and alone? Well no freaking duh, investigative accomplishment of the year right there. We’re all miserable and alone cupcake and only your continual insistence on holding onto your childish fantasies makes you incapable of seeing how miserable and alone you are too. At the end of the day the only thing certain is that everyone is going to leave you whether they walk away or get taken by the sweet kiss of death. Being miserable and alone is the only way to survive. If she thinks the world is any different it’s only because she’s a child and understands nothing. 

‘I’m miserable and alone.’ She threw the words at me with such calloused harshness. This girl, this self-proclaimed champion of believing in people and looking out for others and whose willing to give everything she’s got for her ex-roommate and fights for goodness - believe that I’m so wounded that I’m the sole exception. I’m the one she doesn’t believe in. The light squasher and bringer of all things miserable. I can’t. Just how could she think me so---

Not that she’s wrong. That’s exactly what I am. I just, I didn’t think she’d say it. 

So fine, I laid into her. I did her a favour. Telling her how utterly futile it all was and that she has no idea how the world works and that everything would be better if she just gave. Which it would be. She wants to survive, I need her to give up.

But then, somehow, miraculously, that inconsistency with my every expectation reared it’s head with one simple word.

The creampuff told me ‘no’. 

Of course she immediately mitigated the power of that statement by following it up with some lengthy speech about how I might be right and how the world might not be what she expected and blah blah blah. To be honest I stopped paying attention. 

Until she paused, and with that stupid, adorable determined voice told me that even I deserve better. 

I deserve better than what the world’s given me. This same girl who five seconds ago was telling me that I’m miserable and alone was now telling that I deserve better than to be miserable and alone. She didn’t ignore the reality of my emotions as so many happiness saps do and she didn’t resolve to let me wallow in the reality of the world. The creampuff decided that even I, her annoying roommate, deserved better. 

I don’t think I’ve had that said to me. Certainly Mother would never. Mama lived in a time when the world didn’t believe in deserving better. Even, even Elle believed I was a monster. Everyone. I don’t deserve better. 

But the creampuff. She just. She said. I still can’t quite figure how. 

And best of all, she didn’t even notice. The monumental nature of words she’d just uttered had no effect on her because somehow in her creampuff head, those were normal words. Me deserving better was normal. She just blithely went ahead and posted all of those pointless videos online. 

Naturally Mother couldn’t have that kind of nonsense floating about and immediately set off those alarms to signal a town hall meeting. 

In that moment I found myself willing to try and save the creampuff simply for annoying Mother so much. Throw in the ginger squad’s antics, apparently one of them thinks they’re at an airport, and I could not have existed in a more confused and amused sphere at that moment. 

If Mother does directly confront her, I might even step in. Nothing too stupid, I’d rather not be re-interred below the Earth, but perhaps I could endure a punishment or two. 

As always for Mama:

The Right Honourable and Most Excellentest of all Ladies, Countess Karnstein of Celje

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was pointed out that I should probably mention that each chapter corresponds to an episode of the show. So entry 8 here is meant to match up with episode 8. 
> 
> As always your comments, concerns, questions, and kudos are deeply appreciated. 
> 
> For those who said they prefer a tumblr: http://ariabauer.tumblr.com/
> 
> Until next chapter, stay stupendous! ~Aria


	7. Entry 7 - "Town Hall"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stage left: Enter the freakishly tall ginger

Dear Future Carmilla,

Well the town hall was a riot from start to finish, watching Mother try and wrangle a hoard of fish throwing frat boys is always fun. Fun right up until the ridiculously gigantic Xena had to get all protective and in the way. Just when I’d decided that the creampuff might be worth saving, she has to go and bring home another stray to do the job.

Because the one thing we needed around here was another ginger. 

A freakishly tall ginger. 

Anyway, who does Xena think she is? Jumping in with all of her heroic bullshit and saving someone that she doesn’t even know. Hate to break it to you Creampuff, but people don’t just help others for the heck of it. If Xena decided to defend you from fish wielding frat boys it’s because she took one look at that bunched up little face and decided that she wanted it to be hers. 

And you fell right for it. 

Did you know you had herring stuck in your hair the entire time Xena was walking you home? Because I saw. Probably because I’m not freakishly large. I could have taken it out for you. But Xena left it in. You’ll probably smell like dried salt for a week. 

And then you had to go and take her home. Your new giant bodyguard. Saviour of tiny girls and defier of fratboys. What a hero. What a girl. Did you take her home and give her the just reward for slaying the dragon? Sure, she didn’t have a sword or anything, no mortal peril, nobody died, but sub-par salted herring protection is the best you’re going to get on this campus cupcake. Nobody dies with swords anymore. 

And let’s see if Xena really does anything helpful when Mother’s boy comes for you. 

William is, of course, apparently loving his time as a Zeta Omega Mu idiot frat boy. He didn’t have to reach far for that persona. Chucking fish around and carrying that trident. Ug. Give him another hundred years and maybe he’ll get a clue. Provided mother doesn’t exsanguinate him before then. 

I take small comfort in the fact that the frat boy’s new ‘hottie patrol’ will likely encumber Will’s efforts as much as my own. Perhaps someone here will make it off campus. I’d love to see Mother’s face should William falter in his efforts to procure his mark. Get’s some of the heat off my back too. 

Well, cupcake, it’s pity you’re stuck inside with Xena tonight. The stars are magnificent, though I doubt you’d be able to see anything beyond her giant bulk. But the stars. So seemingly constant in this swirling mess of a world but in actuality likely dead a thousand years ago. The night is lit by the twinkle of a thousand long dead orbs. It’s the best form of perspective cupcake, something you and your heroic notions could use a dose of. But just a small dose. I’m not saying you should lose them altogether but maybe enough to get rid of Xena. 

I swear creampuff, if I walk in and find you and the Jolly Ginger Giant engaged in, just, anything. I will puke. I mastered my gag reflex in 1782 and I will still upchuck.

That’s the last thing I want seared into my retinas. 

Not because of you. Just. No.

\---

Maybe I could trade Xena to Mother for you.

As always for Mama:

The Right Honourable and Most Excellentest of all Ladies, Countess Karnstein of Celje

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the encouragement that you guys have been passing my way on this one. The comments, kudos, and tumblr stalks are all great ways to get feedback and help me write this sucker better. 
> 
> Until the next chapter, stay stupendous.  
> Aria


	8. Entry 8 - “Pitsa I Thanato”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirsh tries to be a bro.  
> Will gets his smirk on.  
> Carmilla bites Kirsh.
> 
> That seems a little unfair for Kirsh.

Dear Future Carmilla,

For the holy hell that is every moment of my existence, what the frilly hell were you thinking Creampuff? First the whole leering lustful ginger giant follows you home and then when I turn up in the room you’ve got the neanderthal and my brother, the evil vampire, in our room. OUR ROOM Creampuff. Not yours. You can’t just keep letting in strays and serial kidnappers to satisfy your curiosity or your death-wish or whatever other stupid impulse drives your actions.

I’m more than enough serial kidnapper vampire for one dorm room. 

You have no idea the level of danger you were in Cupcake. You think the large neanderthal would be able to save you from William’s cocky attitude? He’d have killed you then and there just to mess with me. Ironically Mother’s wrath was the only thing keeping you alive. He thinks he’s so freaking clever, capitalizing on the insufferably named ‘dude-scorts’ and trying to get a jump on my mark so that he can bring you to Mother. Pretentious ass. 

“Keeping me safe from things that bump in the night.” Sure. More like standing there going, ‘Look Kitty, I’m here. In your room. With your girl. There’s nothing you can do about. Don’t mess up. Doesn’t this one look like a good snack?’

That’s what you get for plastering your little plea for help all over the internet. Attention from all the wrong places. Who did you really think your videos about your endless concern for the missing girls and my persistent meanness were going to attract? Heroes? Private Eyes? Buffy the Vampire Slayer?

Well here’s your answer Cupcake. You get a handful of lackwhits and you attract the attention of the people actually doing the kidnapping. How is that not obvious? 

You really think we have the mental capacity to flawless pull off a series of kidnappings but lack the acumen to check the school intranet for nosy girls that perfectly fit the profile of people we’re kidnapping? Did you think this through at all or were you just overwhelmed by heroic notions again?

You want roommate rules? Fine. Rule 1: Stop letting strangers into the room. Rule 2: Stop talking to the ginger giant. Ever again. She grates on my nerves. Rule 3: Leave. Rule 4: Ingest something of high nutritional quality while leaving. Seriously. Your cholesterol levels worry me.

Addendums would be to come up with better insults. “Raging bad person” may fit your adorable personality but it’s doing nothing to raise your intimidation factor. A factor which could help keep you alive. 

The second addendum should be that no-one is allowed to call me Carm-sexy ever again. 

And fine. Maybe I shouldn’t have socked the neanderthal quite so hard but I didn’t break anything. The puppy’s bone’s are all intact. I’m not fresh meat, I know what I’m doing. Anyway creampuff, I had to get the point across to William that I’d break his collarbone again if he interfered with you.

You’re welcome. 

At least you had the common sense to want the, how did you put it, ‘fine upstanding gentleman stalkers’ out of our hair. That was an extremely generous description. Only you would call the deadly, enjoys-evil, vampire a fine upstanding gentleman. Trust me. Will was never one of those. 

I will say that getting rid of the boys was genuinely fun. William wants to demonstrate that he can touch the creampuff? Fine. Watch me bite your boy-toy, brother dearest. The neanderthal’s not the brightest star in the sky and predictably tactile with the slightest touch from a ‘hottie’. But I suppose I can’t blame him for that Willy dear, the primitive by way of the neoclassical type typically lack reserves of brainpower. Too bad Willaim doesn`t have either

Did it rile you William, to see how much the puppy liked my touch until the fangs came out? How about you Creampuff, any thoughts? Certainly you conveyed your distaste but you never indicated why you were unhappy. Was it simply an aversion to general hemorrhaging or something else? Curious perhaps?

But it got rid of them didn’t it? Again, you’re welcome Cupcake. I wouldn’t be biting beefcake necks for just anyone. Too sweaty. The blood alcohol content doesn’t do me any favours either. 

I’ll take repayment in the form of snack foods. 

And apology accepted. I suppose. Getting dragged in front of Mother could have been a lot worse. It did present an opportunity to slip her my alternative proposal. Mother is nothing is not pragmatic and my proposal presents itself perfectly rationally. 

As always for Mama:

The Right Honourable and Most Excellentest of all Ladies, Countess Karnstein of Celje

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your continual support is always really, very, extremely appreciated. 
> 
> To the anon on tumblr: Yes, this (http://ariabauer.tumblr.com/) is me. 
> 
> Stay Stupendous. Aria.


	9. Entry 9 - “Nancy Drew”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny is tall.  
> Carmilla is sarcastic.  
> Danny is stupid.   
> Carmilla is insulted.

Dear Future Carmilla,

There are rules here Creampuff. Remember? Rule 2 - stop talking to the ginger giant. So what do you do? Bring Xena right back into the room. Who cares if we never actually discussed these rules, it was implied cupcake. My distaste for Xena isn’t exactly hidden. Subjecting me to her giant shadow and blinding hair is just inconsiderate. 

She literally makes me nauseous. 

And then she gets sarcastic about it. So my sarcasm isn’t appreciated but the living Eiffel Tower’s sarcasm is okay with you? Inconsistency creampuff. 

But honestly, watching you and the jolly giant giggle at each other with your giant notepad and calling each other geniuses would make anyone nauseous. You’re just lucky that my vampire constitution makes it extremely difficult to throw up chunks. But Xena calling you Watson, that came close. 

Plus who is she kidding? There’s no way that she’s the Sherlock of your little relationship. Granted Creampuff, your techniques have been irritating and naive and just a little too sugary for my taste but at least you had the brains to get semi on the right track. You did identify that the parties were a connection. 

Just semi-correct. Don’t let it go to your head. 

Any idiot with an eyeglass could see that the alchemy club labrats are thoroughly incapable of pulling off anything remotely on the scale of kidnapping. Maybe it’s harder for Xena to see us little insignificants sloughing through reality from her location way up in the sky? The altitude is probably getting to her head. After all, she seems to think that you need minute by minute protection. Perhaps from her perspective you look even tinier? Can she even see your face from up there or is it just the top of your head that turns her on? 

Hey, I’m don’t know what giants are looking for in their tiny folk. At least I can actually see the sparkle in your eyes, without that it’s no wonder she thinks you need help. I mean, your eye height is at what? Her breasts?

That explains a lot actually. 

Although you need to be careful about agreeing with me cupcake. You’re new girlfriend looked positively green when you agreed with my sensible notion of lackwhit alchemy lab rats. 

It was almost as fun as her face when she caught you staring at my legs. Thigh highs and booty shorts, a potent combination. One that, might I add, Xena could never pull off. She’s all thighs in the bad way. 

But she’ll get you carbs and caffeine. She uses phrases like ‘poly-syllabic chemicals’ which, might I add, is literally the least specific descriptive term ever. Sugar is technically a poly-syllabic chemical.

Quite frankly I’m insulted that some of our best work was attributed to those alchemy losers. They don’t have the class. The alchemy club has party supplies at every party ‘genius’, it’s not something worth noticing. 

And then there’s Miss Madness and Terror. You just had to bring them back around. Miss Terror was especially fun. That is, a whole lot less terrified. You know, I never spend much time with Mother’s girls once they’ve been freak-i-fied and run around like drunk monkeys.

Thank you for reminding me why. Brainless party girls are about as much fun as 1874. And that was a frivolous waste of a year. Although Xena’s desperate attempt to avoid the horny Miss Terror was amusing.

Your lack of amusement was much less amusing. 

As always for Mama:

The Right Honourable and Most Excellentest of all Ladies, Countess Karnstein of Celje

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work swallowed me and has just spat me back out. Sorry for the break.
> 
> Your comments and kudos always mean so much! Stay stupendous :)


	10. The Real Betty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Madness and Terror cause madness and terror  
> Hot chocolate abounds  
> Laura is still infuriatingly inconsistent

Dear Future Carmilla,

Cupcake, if stopping in the hallway to get this written out makes me late for the talk on Goethe then I am laying claim to your yellow pillow for at least the next week. I don’t know what detergent you use or how you get it almost exclusively on that pillow but it smells fabulous despite the abrasive colour. But I suppose you’re all about abrasive colours. 

Still, as if Miss Terror wasn’t enough fun times with one of Mother’s party-fied victims you had to go and invite Miss Madness along for the ride. And even better, she brought the man puppy with her. Apparently the neanderthal finds brainless girls attractive. If that doesn’t speak to the male species as a whole I don’t know what does. 

Just as icing on the decadent cake that was the three stooges of simple mindedness, Willy boy was along for the ride. It’s one thing to have a mindless victim fall into the hands of the neanderthal, at least he looks good intentioned for all of his obtuse nature, but watching Miss Terror’s destroyed brain flirt with William was too much even for my taste. That’s a relationship I’ll put effort into making sure doesn’t happen. 

I’m a kidnapper. I’m not heartless, Creampuff. 

Regardless, watching Miss Madness and the Puppy act sickly in love with their niceness and making hot chocolate and taking people to parties was certainly eyebrow raising. This generation has a convoluted definition of the demonstration of love. Is that all it takes these days? Hot chocolate?

However I suppose, upon reflection, that the base of the principle is the same regardless of the generation. Care for the one you love and help them find happiness. 

A trait with you’re currently low on Creampuff. Caring is a pointless action in any version of long termed existence and I’m inclined to wish that you didn’t care quite so much about the fate of your missing roommate, but up until this morning the extreme levels of caring stuffed inside you hadn’t eroded your happiness. 

But there wasn’t a single smile on that bunched up little face when I got up this morning. 

And yes cupcake, 5pm is morning for me. I’m a vampire. Morning and evening are relative to your individual sleep cycle. 5pm is practically early. 

Working tirelessly on some inane project is very much like you creampuff. Sitting for hours on end in front of that computer is you. Talking to that infernal camera is you. Eating copious amounts of low quality snack foods is you. 

Skipping class is not you. 

Your near neuroticism with managing your assignments and keeping up with all of your classes is your one hallmark of consistency Creampuff. Come vampires or frat boys or missing roommates, I’ll give you the accreditation of being committed to your education. This version of you creampuff, the one utterly unconcerned with skipping class, peaked my attention. 

Not that it was my problem. You feel sick? You’re perfectly capable of asking for help if you need it. Or I suppose, your giant girlfriend will foist it on you regardless of your wishes. She’ll make sure you’re perfectly protected from every tiny virus that tries to wiggle your way. Probably use her heft to pick you up and carry you kicking and screaming until she can dump you onto some hospital bed. That’s the protection you were looking for, right cupcake?

Don’t look at me for that nonsense. 

Still, you needed the cocoa. Cookies are well and good once in a while but you, and I emphasize this, you cannot live on cookies. At least the cocoa was the good stuff, real cocoa powder and milk. There’s got to be something in there or even just a different mix of low quality proteins. If nothing else, I’ve always found hot beverages to be a comfort. Mama used to make a delightful hot cider-like concoction. 

I didn’t need it. You did. 

As always for Mama:

The Right Honourable and Most Excellentest of all Ladies, Countess Karnstein of Celje

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the read! I always love to hear your comments, questions, or concerns here or on tumblr at ariabauer.tumblr.com
> 
> This chapter is my '30DaysofCreampuff' contribution for the day (number 2 of 30). 
> 
> And yes, to those who asked, I do love writing Carmilla's sass ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, questions, and concerns always appreciated here or at http://ariabauer.tumblr.com/


End file.
